Out of the Frying Pan
by SpoonyAzul
Summary: After a year in recovery, Agent Michigan joins Project Freelancer, a military operation dedicated to Humanity's survival against the Covenant But as missions become more dangerous and agents more ruthless and competitive, the line between friends and enemies becomes harder to see.
1. Part I: Welcome to Project Freelancer

_**[Part One: The Freelancers]**_

_**Chapter One:**_

_-Welcome to Project Freelancer-_

In a locker room on the cruiser "Mother of Invention," a man clad in steel gray armor with yellow trim slumped down in front of his locker, stretching his sore arms and hurting in places he didn't know he had. Agent Washington just got out of a long, drawn out training session with Agents York, Maine, and South Dakota. Needless to say, he never volunteering for a four-way fight ever again, even under orders by the Director.

_Definitely not worth another rank on the board._

He stretched his arms, ready to take off his steel-colored armor, slip into his matching color fatigues and get a few hours of much-needed sleep when he heard a few Marines running down the hallway just outside the locker room.

Then a few more ran down the hallway.

A third group came by, heading towards the loading bay.

_What the hell's going on?_

While just a little curious, he followed the Marines down the hallway and stopped at the entrance of Loading Bay 01, where the Pelican had just landed from a trip down to Earth. The soldiers went further still out to the other side, into the training area where the sessions took place.

Amidst the huge crowd of grunts, Wash managed to find Agent North Dakota, South's twin brother. He had his clothes on, having ditched his violet and green armor for a pair of sweatpants and a Project Freelancer shirt. He had followed the soldiers from his room and caught Washington's attention.

"What's going on? Why is everyone in such a hurry?" Washington asked, curious about the Marines.

"Remember how pissed off South was after that training session?"

Wash definitely remembered. He could've sworn that she gave off an aura of rage when he tried to comfort her. That ended in failure after she gave what he assumed an angry glare that scared Washington into tripping over a bench.

"Well, she picked a fight with a new recruit."

"Aw crap."

"I could hear them arguing before they broke into a fistfight. South chased the newbie into the training arena and I'm guessing they're still fighting."

"And you didn't stop her, North?"

"Um, as much as I love my sister, I like to live as long as possible."

Washington sprinted down the loading bay and into the observation deck, where three other Freelancers were watching the ongoing fight.

"Why haven't you guys stopped it yet?!" Wash demanded, staring the fight between South and the new recruit.

"It looks like she can take care of herself, Wash," He heard York speak, clad in his tan armor. He didn't even look up at Washington.

"I'm talking about the new recruit!"

"So was I, Wash." York finally looked up at his comrade, "Just come over here and watch."

Washington stepped up to the window and saw South Dakota fighting with someone in burnt orange Mark VI armor and a different variant of the Mark VI helmet. The visor itself was shaped like a 'T' with cheek guards on both sides and a black metal stripe running vertically on the top of the helmet. The shoulder guards were different as well, though they didn't cover the shoulders.

Compared to the other Freelancers, she was smaller in height and had less muscle. The armor configuration seemed to work, preferring mobility over protection. The new agent met with South's punches and kicks with quick timing.

Then, he noticed the recruit's right arm, how it was much thinner than the left.

"What's with the arm?" Wash heard Connecticut say after a few minutes of watching the fight. "It looks weird."

"Looks like a prosthetic." York responded, "Must've gone through some serious therapy to make it move like that."

Washington glanced at the others before going back to the fight with a hint of worry behind his visor. He just hoped that South didn't kill the new recruit.

* * *

Thirty seconds into entering Project Freelancer and Agent Michigan was already on someone's bad side. She thought that had to be some kind of record, but that wasn't a priority at the moment.

"Look, I apologized already! Could we just—WHOA! HEY! Don't do that!" she found herself dodging a swinging fist that scraped by her helmet.

"Shut up and fight already!" The other woman commanded.

"What, no." The new agent blurted out, "Look, I said I was sorry! Can't we talk this over?"

"Your loss!" The other quipped before she swung her fist again, only to hit by Michigan's knee to her small visor.

Despite many attempts to reconcile with her, the new agent knew that the bitch wasn't looking for an apology. She was looking for a punching bag, a way to vent her frustrations out on. It was all because Michigan called her a bitch aloud when she angrily refused to help her directions to the Medical Wing.

That's how Michigan ended up in a training room with an enraged psychobitch rather resting up for her training session she had the next day.

Then again, she thought that she could use some venting of her own, with everything that happened over the past few years.

Most of the time, she had to either block or dodge her attacker's punches while trying to land blows of her own. A few times, Michigan wasn't fast enough and the other's attacks got through. The other had landed her fist in her face twice. Even with the helmet on, the side of her face stung quite a bit and she had the slight taste of blood in her mouth. Still, she fought on.

However, she eventually could feel herself wearing down, her assailant's blows becoming much faster as a result. Even when she tried, she couldn't even land a single blow on the agent and started on the defensive. Trying to move in full body armor was harder than it looked, apparently.

Just when she saw an opening, Michigan swung a punch at her opponent, but missed and almost fell forward. She quickly regained her balance just as the other Freelancer kicked her in the stomach. Michigan felt her knees give way and she almost fell to the hard floor. The blow left her winded and she could barely breathe inside her helmet. Worse still, the rookie felt the sudden urge to throw up, but then shot it down. She did not want to do **that** with her helmet on.

Suddenly, a fist struck Michigan in her head and she had fallen face first into the ground. The other agent slammed her knee into the newbie, pinning her to the training room floor and holding her prosthetic behind her back. Then she made a grab for her left wrist and started twisting it, her normal arm protesting in pain.

"What the hell's your problem?!" Michigan yelled out while the other girl twisted her arm even more.

"You need to be put in your place, you fuckin' greenhorn." The girl spat out, "However, if you say you're sorry to me, I might not break your arm in two."

"Oh really? Well then," The pinned agent said, before quickly adding, "in that case, I'm sorry that you're such a petty little bitch."

Michigan immediately regretted saying that when a hand grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her head into the hard gray floor. Even with the helmet on, Michigan could feel the impact on the side of her face. Her vision started to get fuzzy and dark when her human arm began to twist and bend backwards in pain, waking her back up.

_Aw, shit! This isn't good._

A loud, angry voice boomed from the intercom.

"_Agent Michigan, South Dakota, stand down! Both of you!"_

Michigan felt the pressure lift off her back as South Dakota let her go. Both agents stood at attention, their arms to their sides and their heads staring straight ahead. An old man with thick glasses and dark, graying hair walked in between them and stared angrily at both of them. Then he whirled on Michigan, who took a step back before she stood her ground and braced herself.

"Agent Michigan, I was expecting you for your equipment test five minutes ago. Instead, I find you here, picking fights with the other agents."

"Sir, I got…" She tried to find the right word.

Goaded into a fight? Interrupted?

"..distracted." She managed to say before she groaned in disappointment. Even as she said it, Michigan mentally kicked herself several times. _Real fuckin' smooth, Ramona. _

"I don't care if you got _distracted_, Michigan." The Director took a step forward, looming over her. "You had orders and you disregarded them. If you are going to stay in this program, I expect you to follow orders and follow them to the latter. You may have gotten off easy, leaving the war to join my project, but let me make myself clear, my dear, you are out of the frying pan and _into the fire_. Do you understand?"

She opened her mouth to say something, but quickly shut it. It _was _her fault that she picked a fight in the first place. She could've said nothing and gone to someone else for directions. Not to mention, she also completely forgot about her orders to report to the Medical Wing for her equipment tests. Other than, _the woman was a total bitch and couldn't tell me where it was when I asked nicely, _she couldn't come up with a decent excuse, so she begrudgingly replied, "Yes, sir."

She heard the other agent laugh, but barely. The newbie clenched her teeth in anger underneath her helmet, but she quickly shot that feeling down. _Calm down, Ramona. She's not worth it. Not now, anyway._

"I'm glad to hear it. Agent South, we will discuss your actions in my office. Michigan, report to the Medical Wing, now." The Director stressed the last sentence before exiting the training room with the other Freelancer in tow.

Both agents glared at each other for a few seconds before South Dakota purposely shoved Michigan to the side with her shoulder. Michigan's anger flared again as she shook her head and exited the training room. Obviously, venting didn't work at all. The fight just made Michigan much angrier and now she felt frustrated that she let the woman get under her skin.

Agent Michigan knew she had to pick her battles wisely, but the feeling of saying, _"Fuck you, bitch,"_ while wanting to beat the agent's head into a messy, crimson stain on the wall still lingered in her mind.


	2. Part I: Making Friends

_**Chapter Two**_

_-Making Friends-_

Inside the test arena, two tech officers dressed in their drab yellow uniforms stood at their computer consoles, bringing the new recruit's equipment online. One tech officer, Sam Patterson, looked up from his screen and glanced at the new agent. Compared to the other Freelancers, the young woman was smaller and her arms had less muscle, her right arm much thinner because of the prosthetic. With the glistening armor and the faceless, reflective surface of her visor, the small, unassuming girl looked absolutely terrifying yet beautiful, an angel of destruction and death, meant for nothing but killing.

"Wow, she's **flat** as a fuckin' board."

However, his fellow tech officer, Glenn Mayer, managed to take that image and smash it to pieces like a brick to a stained glass window.

"God damn it, Glenn." he groaned while rubbing his forehead.

"What? What'd I say?"

Sam looked up at his co-worker from his seat. "Dude, you're looking at a badass space warrior who can kick your ass from here to Sunday and the first thing you mention is the size of her tits?"

"Oh come on, it's not like she can listen to us inside that oversized bucket. Besides, you know I like big breasts on a girl, like the ones on Carolina." The tech officer said, forgetting his duties and imagining the redhead topless, his hands in a flexing motion, "Now those I wanna squeeze."

"Yeah, never gonna happen. She'd wipe the floor with you first." Sam quipped before going back into his screen, "No erratic heartbeats or brainwaves, bringing health monitors online."

"Man, you're such a fuckin' prude."

"...and you're a pervert."

"You're one to talk," Glenn shot back, pointing at the Freelancer on the floor, "or was I imagining it when you stared at her ass when she walked in?"

Immediately, Sam's back straightened and his face turned red. _Ah fuck, he saw me…._

"Hey, shut up, man. It's called art appreciation. I don't diss a girl because she's 'flat as a fuckin' board,' as you put it." Sam shot back while striking the keys on his holographic interface, "Recharging shield systems are operational. Health monitor online, bringing up targeting systems."

A large grin appeared on Glenn's face as he stood up and patted his friend on the shoulder, "I'm saying that I don't blame you. In fact, I'm very proud of you for glancing at a cute girl. With the right body, that under layer part of the armor always makes it snug in all the right places. But, from what I can tell, her ass is the only thing she's got going. Plus, I don't like the ones with the robot arms. Always expect them to smell like motor oil."

"Dude, would you just drop it?"

"Aw, what's wrong?" his fellow officer teased in a mocking tone, "You have a crush on her already? Don't tell me you believe that 'Love at first sight' bullshit."

Sam responded by pointing his finger at his colleague's interface. He looked down at his hand on the intercom button, the red light indicating that it was on.

The tech officer looked down at the agent on the floor, both her arms crossed, her prosthetic twisted with her natural limb, and silently tapping her foot. Her helmet's visor obscured her face, but he didn't need to see that she was angry.

"You cockbite! Why didn't you say anything?!" Glenn blurted out.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam managed to say before turning back his screen, "Targeting systems online, motion tracker online, bringing up night vision."

While Glenn opened his mouth to say something, the door to the observation deck opened and two men entered. One was the Director himself and the other was the Counselor, an unnamed, dark skinned man who always carried a Holopad and at the Director's heels, following him like a shadow. The tech officer muttered a curse under his breath before going back to work.

"Is everything in order?" the Director asked Sam.

"Just about...there." the tech officer replied, typing on his screen before turning his seat to the Director, "Just brought up night vision online, sir. Everything looks green across the board."

"Good." Came the Director's reply, "Start the testing."

Sam opened an intercom channel and spoke to the new agent, "Alright, let's start with the shielding system..."

* * *

Michigan's helmet immediately showed everything on her heads-up-display on the inside of her visor. It showed her health and shields in real time at the top of her screen, along with a radar at the bottom left and what looked like a munitions display right next to her health monitor. Her HUD integrated with her neural interface and entered her peripheral vision, small enough not to obscure her vision, but big enough to see if she concentrated on them long enough.

The tech officers brought up one function at a time and tested her for each one. Every function they brought online, Michigan complied as she completed each test as if she was on autopilot, almost like a robot. Under the helmet, though, the feeling of irritation crept into her mind. She was still thinking about the fight with 'South', even after testing was over and the Director told her to report for weapon testing in the "morning."

With the help of the onboard AI, designated FLISS, she found her way into the barracks and into her room. She noted the basic essentials, a small bed with a side table and a small cabinet for her clothes.

Michigan found herself sitting on the bed, unable to shake off the feelings of anger. She was too wound up to go to sleep and punching the shit out of a sandbag would do nothing.

"Um, FLISS," She started, so weird talking to an AI, "so, you know your way around the ship right?"

_Of course, _The AI stated in a very cheerful demeanor,_ Would you like to take a tour?_

"Um, no, I just need a quiet place to think with a window, I guess."

_Alright, scanning…_ The AI paused as if searching for something, then spoke up, _There is an empty observation deck on the starboard side of the ship. It offers a lovely view of Earth just above orbit. Would you like me to point the way?_

With a silent nod, the AI lit up a path that guided the new agent to the starboard observation deck on the floor, the lights blinking, giving the illusion of moving forward.

Eventually, Michigan found her way into the observation deck. Several rows of benches filled the large room with a window showing the black void of space covered with countless stars. She slumped in one of the benches and took off her helmet, placing it beside her before letting out a long sigh. A headache started to form inside her head as she thought about today's events.

She was off to a rocky start, Michigan knew that much. She didn't think she would run into trouble five minutes into the project, much less pick a fight with someone.

The Director. He reminded her of her father back on Earth, harsh without being loud. The only exception was her father didn't talk to her like a five-year-old who just picked a fight with a neighborhood kid.

'South.' While the altercation was partially her fault, Michigan knew that she were going to have problems with her. Just by the teasing, she knew that the girl was a bitch.

Something had been tugging at the back of her mind since she entered the observation deck. That something grew when she sat down. It was a familiar feeling...

Like someone following her.

So then, she asked out loud, "Are you going to come out of hiding? Or do I have throw a knife at you?"

Nothing. No one came out or said anything. The new agent mentally slapped herself. _Quit it, Ramona. South is not gonna beat you senseless before a training session tomorrow._

_Then again, I wouldn't past her..._

_Goddamn it! Knock it off, you're being paranoid!_

She argued inside her head for a few minutes until a hand rested on her shoulders.

"Are you okay?" a male voice asked.

Instinct instantly kicked in as she stood on her feet. One hand grabbed his wrist while her other gripped his belt. With a strained grunt, Michigan flipped her assailant over her head and slammed the body into the ground.

"A-aah-ooow!" the man protested in pain.

Michigan looked down at the person she threw over her head, her hand still grinding his wrist. His armor was colored blue-white running across his helmet and on the arm protection. His helmet was off, showing his short brown hair and eyes. His facial expression was mixture of bewilderment and apprehension.

"Oh," Michigan realized what she had done and let go the man's wrist. She covered her mouth with her hand, alarmed of her own actions, "Holy shit, I'm so sorry. It was just a reflex, I always throw people who sneak up behind me...Fuck, and I…messed up."

"So, judging with what happened between you and South, I'd say you had a bad day, huh?" He quipped before slowly standing on his own feet.

"Um, well," She hung her head low, clearly ashamed of throwing someone who was being friendly, "I've...been on edge, so yeah..."

"Saw the fight from the loading bay and the observation deck. You did pretty good, but you shouldn't pick fights with random people, or call them names for that matter." The man explained, "Kinda hurts your reputation and it's gonna be really uncomfortable when you're paired together on a mission."

"Well, no shit!" Her anger flared up, but then it quickly disappeared. Michigan let out a sigh before she sat down into the bench with a slump.

"Damn it," she cursed, "I'm sorry. I'm not...I've…I'm just gonna throw myself off the ship."

"Okay, two things you need to know," the young man started off, "Quit apologizing and don't make excuses. The Director doesn't take too kindly to things like that."

Michigan sighed, "I think I got that when he scolded me like a five year old."

"The first day here isn't usually difficult." The freelancer replied, sitting next to her, "You just caught South at a bad time. It's not your fault.

"Well, I really need to learn when to not say thoughts outloud."

"Heh, really? What exactly happened?"

An awkward silence filled the room. It was weird for her. She wondered if the man speaking to her was this good-natured or if he was just doing this to get her guard down. She trusted her instincts and went with the latter. It's not like everyone was against each other and wanted to kill everyone.

So, she explained to him how she ran into South, asked for directions, how she told her to "Fuck off," and how Michigan called her a bitch out loud, which led to the argument and the fighting in the Training Room.

"You actually tried apologizing?"

Michigan shrugged, "Didn't think it would hurt, but you saw how that worked out."

The awkward silence came back, feeling much thicker than the first time. In an attempt to break it, Michigan spoke first, "I...didn't break anything, did I?"

"What?"

"When I threw you to the ground." She reminded him.

The man shook his head, checking his limbs and cracking his neck, "My limbs are still intact and my spine is still in place. So no, you didn't do any damage. You're not that much of a hard hitter, anyway."

"Oh that's good, I guess," she said, twiddling with her thumbs, "Sometimes, it's good when this thing works when it wants to."

"I take it you're talking about your prosthetic?"

Michigan stared down at the piece of metal melded to her shoulder, moving her arm and flexing her fingers. "Had this for a year and I'm still trying to get used to this thing. During the fight, I lost my balance trying to punch her and that gave her an opening."

"Well, South is one of the best agents in the Project…"

She sighed, "Small wonder why I got my ass kicked."

They both laughed for a bit before Michigan asked, "I don't think I got your name."

The man let out a chuckle before he replied, "My codename is Vermont, but most people call me 'Monty' for short. What's your name?"

Michigan felt a little relieved. It seemed that the guy was actually being friendly and she didn't want to burn bridges with the other Freelancers. At the very least, she didn't end up fighting every time she met someone. She hesitated at first and then she gave him her state name.

Vermont raised an eyebrow, "Michigan? For some reason, it makes me want to call you Mitch."

"Don't call me that. People will think I'm a guy and this armor doesn't exactly do me justice." She said, putting her helmet back on and stood on her feet.

"Leaving already? Don't tell me you hate me because I called you Mitch." The male Freelancer quipped with a hint of teasing in his voice.

"No, but as much as I love to continue this conversation, the Director has me running a few training sessions tomorrow." Michigan explained as she headed to the door. "Besides, I need to clean up. I can still taste blood in my mouth."

"Don't worry screwing up, Mitch. Just run through the training sessions and you should be fine."

"Quit calling me Mitch! I'm not a guy!"

"I'm telling you it's gonna stick." Monty warned her, his voice loud as she left the observation room to grab a few hours of much needed sleep. The anger from had earlier faded, but it wasn't completely wiped away.


	3. Part I: Memories of That Day

**_Chapter Three_**

_-Memories of That Day-_

_It was like any other day in the hospital. Ramona Cassidy took her morning medications and was on her way to her physical therapy and exercise. The young woman hummed a random song while she flexed her metallic limb. The hand, her hand really, flexed its fingers almost fluidly, save a few twitches. _

_She had made excellent progress since the fever dreams had passed six months ago. Still, she had a long way to go before she could rejoin the army. _

_The only thing different about her schedule was the hand-to-hand combat matches with her father, one of few things that she tolerated while recuperating. She entered the room, stood opposite to her opponent, and took a stretch before adopting a battle stance. Her father, John, was a man in his late forties, very fit for his age, but his brown hair had started turning gray and never made attempt to hide it. He was taller than his daughter was and much more physically built. He was a man who spoiled her and taught her hand-to-hand combat, on top of how to wield a knife, so she could defend herself._

_As usual, her mother stood in the next room and watched from the window. She had short auburn hair, dyed in her natural color to cover the gray strands, and wore her doctor's coat over her red blouse and black skirt. Her mother was renowned in the field of prosthetics. When she learned of her child's survival, Dr. Nora Cassidy insisted that she would have one. That's why she overlooked the sparring matches to make sure that the limb didn't malfunction and that her daughter could take the kicks and punches. _

_All seemed normal for the most part…except…_

_There was the man standing next to her mother. He didn't look like any of the doctors taking care of her. In fact, he didn't look familiar at all and made Ramona a little uneasy. He wore a gray suit, dark hair slicked back with a few gray strands and a thin goatee grown on his chin while thick, square glasses framed around his dark eyes. He had a serious look on his wrinkled face with his hands behind his back as if he was here on business._

_She shook the feelings off and turned back to her dad. A few minutes later, the match started when she lunged forward. Both fighters had different strategies. The father could take hits and drew powerful punches. The daughter was much smaller than he was, so she used speed to avoid blows and waited for a chance to strike. A few times, she dodged the wrong way and her father would land a blow. The impact would send her tumbling to the ground, but, like always, she would get back up, spit out red and continue. _

"_Pretend I'm your enemy when we fight." She heard him once say while having a sparring match in her backyard when she turned eighteen._

_Some might consider something like that harsh. Nora said it was extreme. But, his daughter didn't complain. After all, it saved her life when the shit hit the fan in New Alexandria._

_For the most part._

_However, the match ended abruptly when she heard the door open. Her mother and the unknown man had stepped through the door. From the sound of their conversation, they were in an intense argument._

"…_and I want to meet her. Her recovery is nothing short of remarkable, Nora." She heard a thick southern dialect in the man's voice, "Someone with such a strong will to live is rare these days."_

_Nora stepped in front of him and stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder. "…and, for the tenth time, you will have your chance! You will talk to her when I say so, not when you want to, Leonard."_

_He glared at the doctor, his patience clearly thinning, "I need to see if the girl is as good as you said she is. Do I need to remind you why you came to me?"_

_The doctor's voice rose to a shrill and she spat out, "I haven't told her, you idiot!"_

_Ramona saw the unknown man flinch at her screaming, but his serious face remained unchanged. Then she saw her mother cover her mouth, as if she'd said something she wasn't supposed to._

"_Nora, what the hell is he talking about?"_

_Nora turned around as her father blurted out those words. Ramona continued to stare at the unknown man, their eyes meeting for a few seconds before she looked back at her mother._

_Ramona remembered the look on her mother's face, her usual stone exterior that she was familiar with began to crumble. It rarely happened and Ramona knew something was wrong. Her voice started shaking when she said, "There's something you both need to know."_

* * *

Her eyes snapped open and, for a second, Michigan thought she was back at the hospital. The cold feeling in her veins tore her from a deep peaceful sleep and she let a string of harsh curses. The rookie got her bearings and managed to tell herself that she was on the Mother of Invention, not in a hospital room. For the moment, all she could do was lie on her cot and just focus on trying to calm down.

Her eyes stung while something wet trickled down her cheek and tasted salty tears on her lips. Wiping her eyes, she saw clear tears run down her fingers and quickly went into the bathroom. She turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on her face twice. After drying herself off with a towel, she saw her reflection in the mirror, her green eyes red and puffy from crying in her sleep.

Then a short wave of anger came over her. Why, she thought, out of all the terrible memories, why did I dream that one?!

For twelve months, she stayed on board a hospital floating above Earth, its callsign Angel on my Shoulder. She had a prosthetic implanted into her right shoulder after losing her arm on Reach, in New Alexandria. She remembered the fever dreams, the doctor fretting over her as if she were made of glass, and the frustration of relearning every movement known to man.

Instead of finding the answer, she just took a few deep breaths and stamped that memory out. Old wounds needed to be mended, not reopened. Moreover, the Director would most likely frown upon a Freelancer crying.

She came out of the bathroom and stared at the clock. She'd been asleep for two hours and her training session was in three. There was nothing for her to do but go back to sleep…

…except she kept hearing a slight beep every five minutes. It wasn't loud and obnoxious like an loud siren blaring, but quiet and subtle she could barely hear it. She was able to ignore it at first, but then it started to get on her nerves, like a leaky faucet in the middle of the night.

Standing next to her bed, she looked around and heard the beeping noise coming from under her bed. She knelt down and her hand reached for something small, pulling out what looked a camera with an even smaller microphone attached to it.

_The fuck?_

Then she saw another small camera this time in the vent above the closet door. She carefully removed the vent and pulled it out. Then a third came into her view, located behind the desk.

_You've got to be kidding me…_

Then she glanced at the fourth on the other end of the desk and growled.

Green eyes scanned the room for other surveillance devices. It quickly became an Easter egg hunt, but for the small electronic devices. Each time she found one, she put it on the bed and continued searching. While some were in plain view, there were other bugs that were very well-hidden, including a small mic stitched inside one of her shirts in the closet and a bug hidden inside the lamp on her desk. A few required her to move around what little furniture she had, which took some effort as the prosthetic wasn't meant for heavy lifting.

In an about an hour, she managed to find thirty-five cameras and microphones, but she still wasn't done. As minutes passed, she grew more and more frustrated. Just when she'd thought she found that last one, another beep could be heard.

Eventually she searched the bathroom found a few underneath and around the bathroom sink. It was starting to become a bit ridiculous when she discovered a tiny microphone inside the sink's faucet .

_How many of these things are there_, she frustratingly thought when she pulled yet another one out of the back of the toilet in her bathroom. She even looked in the showerhead, but to her relief she didn't find one.

_Good to know the Director isn't a dirty old pervert._

BEEP!

"Oh come on!" she groaned. Where else could it be?! She checked the bed, the desk, the bathroom sink, every nook and cranny, and still nothing.

That's when she looked up at the ceiling and saw the fire alarm, a white plastic disc attached to the gray surface. She eyed it suspiciously.

BEEP!

For the second time, she frustratingly sighed, _You have got to be kidding me._

With some effort, she pulled the large, heavy desk from against the wall and dragged it underneath the alarm, making a god awful screeching noise as the legs scraped across the floor. Using the chair and the desktop as a stepladder, the rookie removed the plastic lid off the alarm when she heard a female voice at the door.

"Agent Michigan, what are you doing?"

Suddenly feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, Michigan turned her attention to the woman standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her armor was aquamarine with a different design than the standard issue armor that the other Freelancers wore. The woman had no helmet, so she showed her copper red hair held back in a low ponytail with piercing green eyes hiding behind her bangs.

_Fierce and beautiful. Definitely a scary combination. _

She shook her head and turned back towards the dismantled fire alarm, plucking out the tiny mic found next to the battery, jumped down from the desk and showed it to her visitor. "Do you have any idea how many of these fuckers are in this room?" She asked aloud, not out of curiosity, but of frustration and fatigue. The she added, "Because I sure as hell don't."

The woman raised an eyebrow, looked at the equipment on the bed and then asked, "How long have you been at this?"

"I have no idea." She shrugged, "What time is it?"

"0630 hours."

She stared at the clock on the wall and instantly her face fell. "Oh shit!"

After realizing that her training session started in an hour, she leapt over the desk and quickly exited the room, ignoring her visitor and repeating the word 'shit' like a mantra.

* * *

After watching Michigan frantically sprint down the hallway (and sprint back, "Forgot my knife!" the rookie Freelancer proclaimed while she snagged a knife off the desk), Agent Carolina glanced down the small cameras and microphones on the cot.

All which were fake, the field leader knew. She planted them under the Director's orders. He needed to know if Michigan was indeed worth his time and effort to train.

Carolina took a quick count, tallied up to forty-nine devices. A frown showed her face and recounted again. There were supposed to be fifty in total. She scanned the room, which was in complete disarray. The desk sat in the middle of the room, the messy bed left unmade with starch sheets and pillows everywhere on the floor and the showerhead in the bathroom dangled off the wall.

Her eyes settled on the light switch next to the doorway, practically left untouched in the mess that was Michigan's room. She pried open the lid and revealed the fake device behind the circuiting. She looked back at the devices on the cot before she tossed it in with the rest.

_Forty-nine out of fifty is exceptional, but not perfect. The Director doesn't settle on anything less. Still, she could be Freelancer material, _Carolina thought while exiting the room and into the hallway. She took out a datapad, pulled up Michigan's file, and carefully read over her personal history for anything to work with in terms of skills.

So far, she knew the rookie could fight in close quarters, even throw someone bigger than her over her shoulder according to North Dakota, and find hidden devices. Her military history proved that she could kill and grew accustomed to violence on the battlefield. Fighting a race that systematically tried to exterminate humanity for four years was no mean feat.

Carolina sighed, still reading for anything else that showed what else Michigan could do.


	4. Part I: Allies and Enemies

_**Chapter Four**_

_-Allies and Enemies-_

_I feel like an idiot_, Michigan thought as she quickly wolfed down her second MRE._ I put on my armor for nothing._

Showing an hour up before her training session, she wandered the Mother of Invention and found the mess hall. It looked like any cafeteria with rows of large tables, enough to seat a large group of people. Near the entrance was a small kitchenette with cheaply made counters, complete with a coffee maker, a microwave and a electric stove. Suddenly, her stomach growled and her throat became dry.

She realized that she hadn't eaten anything since arriving on the Halcyon-class cruiser.

The mess hall was empty, save for a few people. A pair of tech officers in the far corner talked, one of them laughing while telling a very dirty joke while the other covered his face and groaned. A Freelancer in white, standard-issue armor sat closer in the middle, drinking what looked like tea and reading something on a data-pad. He looked to be in his forties, maybe early fifties, and black hair parted to the right. She thought the person had the most ridiculous mustache she had ever seen on his face. It was big, neatly trimmed just like his hair with curls on both ends. Almost cartoonish, Michigan thought.

She shook it off and sipped her cup of coffee, her face contorting in disgust. The last cup was so terrible that she took one sip and immediately spat it out. It was better this time around, though it took a shit-ton of crappy coffee creamer and Sweet n' Low. The anger from yesterday had turned to bitterness after having her dream from last night. Michigan couldn't imagine how it could get worse.

"Well, now. Who do we have here?"

_Oh, it just got worse._

She looked up to find a man standing over her and he didn't look too friendly. He had very short, jet black hair with a cold hard stare from his blue eyes and clad in dark-green armor. The man appeared to be around Michigan's age, stood menacingly, just less than six feet tall and had a sneer plastered on his face.

"I don't think I've seen you around. The name's Arkansas, though you can call me Ark if you want." The man said, nudging a bit too close for her tastes.

"I'd prefer not to."

"Come now, rookie. In this project, you need allies, not enemies. I can help you there."

Michigan irritatedly sighed, "Not interested. I can figure out who my allies are for myself, thanks."

He noticed the knife snug inside the leather sheath strapped to her shoulder. "You've got a nice blade there. You know, girls like you shouldn't be handling something so dangerous. So, why don't you give it to someone more capable?"

Michigan rolled her eyes as she stood up from her seat and walked around the man with her coffee in hand. "By all means, tell me when you find someone capable of handling a blade. I would love to meet him."

She didn't take three steps when the man tripped her with his foot and the hand on her back shoved her into the table. Michigan let out a grunt when she hit the table and fell to the cold floor. Her cup shattered to pieces and hot coffee on spilled everywhere. She looked up at the man with a mix of anger and alarm, her face practically screamed, "What the fuck?"

"That's no way to talk your superiors, cunt." The man spat at her, "Don't know why the Director let a little rat like you in the Project, but when I ask for something, you better give me it to me."

Michigan then causally stood on her feet, using the table as support, and brushed herself off. Then she pulled out her knife from its leather sheath and held it out handle first, "Alright. you're the boss."

Just when the other Freelancer made a grab for it, he felt the edge of the blade press against his throat. It wasn't enough break the skin, but enough to make his eyes go wide and his lower lip quiver in fear. Her face quickly turned to stone and her eyes grew cold. With each step she took forward, the now-scared Freelancer took one step back.

She said as menacingly as she could, "Why so scared? You wanted my knife, didn't you? Thing is, you didn't tell me where you wanted me to put it. Not very smart, are you? Well, let me tell you something. You should be afraid of someone like me. Very afraid. Last time I stuck someone with this knife, I loved listening to the guy squeal like a pig."

She pressed the knife a little and said in a low whisper, "You gonna squeal when I stab you?"

The man quickly turned away to run, but instead he smacked himself into the wall and crashed into the empty trashcan next to him. He scrambled to his feet and gave Michigan a very angry glare. "You little bitch."

She wasn't too sure what he was going to do, but before he could do anything, an angry voice boomed right behind Michigan. "What the hell are you two doing?!"

No sooner did Michigan turn around, a foot shot up and kicked the knife out her hand. All she saw was a streak of aquamarine before something grabbed her and slammed her to the ground. "OW!"

"...that is how you disarm your opponent, Arkansas."

Suddenly, Michigan felt a lot of pressure on her back while someone twisted her arm behind her back. The woman's voice sounded familiar, though.

"But, Carolina," the other Freelancer whined, "you said I had to—"

"I said to toughen up." The woman named Carolina finished the sentence for him with Michigan still pinned to the ground, "I didn't say to make a total ass of yourself! On top of that, you let yourself get shit-scared of a rookie! A rookie who's smaller than you!"

"She had a knife! She threatened to-"

Immediately, the pressure on her back lifted and Carolina now turned her attention to Arkansas. Then Michigan immediately recognized the armor color as she stood on her feet. It was the redheaded woman from earlier and, by the sound of her voice, she sounded livid.

What was more surprising how quickly Arkansas went from a intimidating bully to a sniveling coward. She didn't know whether or not he was bluffing, but she never had seen anyone change so quickly.

Then again she was bluffing herself, but the other Freelancer didn't need to know that.

"So what? You think your opponent is gonna stop because you freeze like a statue at the sight of a blade? Or were you too scared of the bullshit Michigan fed you to do anything? Next time, kick the blade out of the hand, then you attack. Now get out of my sight."

Arkansas opened his mouth, but then quickly shut it. He just growled and stormed out of the mess hall, giving Michigan a scared look before he was out of view. She couldn't shake off the feeling that she made a mistake.

"God damn it," The orange Freelancer muttered.

Then she looked up to Carolina glaring at her. Her instincts told her to leave, but she stood rooted to the spot when the redhead walked up to her, an angry expression still on her face. Michigan felt like she was back in Basic when Carolina stared her down. So, she just stood there and braced herself for whatever hurtful things the soldier had to say.

Carolina spoke first, showing Michigan's own knife, "What were you trying to prove with this?"

"He acted like an asshole," Michigan spat out, "He pushed me—"

"—onto the floor and knocked the coffee out your hands. I saw the whole thing. So what if he did?"

Another angry glare.

Michigan scoffed, "I wasn't gonna kill him if that's what you're pissed off about. Just wanted to scare him and call him on his bullshit."

"You think he knew that, Michigan? You think every Freelancer who comes through here is a seasoned soldier like you?"

Michigan gave her an icy stare, "Can I go now? I have a training session in five minutes." She stepped forward to leave, but Carolina grabbed her arm in a tight grip.

"You're not leaving until I say so."

Michigan stared sourly at the floor until a hand grasped her by the chin and turned her head around, "…and look at me when I'm talking to you."

The rookie Freelancer did look. She could see livid green eyes stared back at her through her red bangs. A slight chill enter her stomach when she realized Carolina wasn't messing around. "You think you have it hard, barely surviving New Alexandria only to be sold to the highest bidder?"

When Michigan's face changed to surprise, Carolina let go of her chin. "It's my job to know these things, Michigan. Some of these guys are in the same boat you are. Others are volunteers. A few of them like Arkansas are barely in their twenties and don't even know which end of a knife is the pointy end."

"Does it look like I care?" Michigan quipped bitterly, "I never wanted to be here in the first place. Fuckin' hate it here already."

"That's life, Michigan. This is how it is and how it's going to be. Whether you like it or not, you're going to be stuck here, same as the rest of us."

_No thanks to mom_, Michigan thought.

"It's either a long or short life, depending on what you do here. You think scaring the crap out of anyone is going to do you any good. You keep going down that road and one of these days, someone will slit your throat while you're sleeping. I've seen it happen."

"Tell me then. How am I supposed to—" Michigan started before Carolina got in her face.

"Quit being a bully, Mitch. People like Arkansas have no experience on the battlefield and still squirm at the sight of blood. He's had a few fistfights, sure, but that doesn't count for shit when your opponent can shoot from a hundred miles away."

Michigan never thought about that. When she joined the project, she assumed that Freelancers had some military experience. She never considered that some had volunteered because they had nowhere to go or they lost their loved ones during the Covenant War. Upon realizing this, she felt the constrictive feeling of shame and guilt in her chest. She slumped into a seat and held her head in her hands as she tasted something sour in her mouth.

The aquamarina solder place the knife on the table next to Michigan, "Now get to the training arena. You don't want to be late again."

With a heavy sigh, Michigan put her knife back into its leather sheath, picked up her helmet and exited the mess hall, still feeling guilt inside her chest.

Now she _knew_ she made a mistake.


End file.
